


Broken (Hurt/No comfort) (Julian x OC)

by CallYouByYourName, Hearty Durian (SaskiaTheWanderer)



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Abuse, BDSM, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Heartbreak, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 06:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20371927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallYouByYourName/pseuds/CallYouByYourName, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaskiaTheWanderer/pseuds/Hearty%20Durian
Summary: WARNINGS: Abuse, noncon, and hearbreak. This one HURTS.Let me just say that one more time for the people in the back: this one hurts. This is a hurt/no comfort fic and it made me cry. Originally a plot point from my good friend Ria (Hearty Durian) for an RP we did together. I'm a dirty plagarist - the idea was all theirs but this rewrite is mine.A/N: Yes, this is a repost. I'm removing it from the sprawling wasteland that is Spare Parts and giving it it's own shelf. I do what I want. :P





	Broken (Hurt/No comfort) (Julian x OC)

On the floor of his private room in one of Vesuvia’s most exclusive brothels, Julian is weeping.

Curled up onto his side, his knees are close to his chest, his large hands clasped to his face as if he could hide his entire self behind them. He weeps as if his heart will break. Has already broken, maybe.

His wrists and ankles are chafed and burned from his struggles against the ropes he still wears, although they’ve been untied from the strong rings embedded for this purpose in the floor and ceiling. His back is a bloody mess of deep lacerations and shredded skin, where one lash has been layered on another until no individual stripe remains. The carnage continues to his buttocks and upper thighs, where it is slightly less frantic. Even his chest and sides show the evidence of this thrashing, although he’s suffered much less abuse there. A ball gag lies near him on the floor, still slick with saliva, and deeply embedded with the marks of his teeth. His cheeks are dented from wearing it too many hours, the too-tight strap cutting into him, his screams and struggles unheeded. His jaw aches.

His love never used to gag him when they beat him, or almost never.

_I like to hear you. You have such a pretty voice._ That’s what they’d said, once.

But this time had been different. Different than any time before it.

He’d thought he was safe! Safety, what a joke. But he’d believed that the person on the other side of the whip had... well, had _loved_ him. Maybe this was only what he deserved, for being so stupidly naive. 

Earlier in the evening, though it now seems a lifetime ago, his beloved had tied him up, perhaps more securely than usual, with rough red rope instead of the soft silk that he was used to. That was fine; he enjoyed pain and could absorb a lot of it. Besides, he knew he was safe with them, that he could allow himself to slip easily and completely into subspace, yielding everything to their desires, trusting that he’d be released if it grew to be too much, that he’d be cared for afterward. The bonds had been very secure, perhaps tighter than usual, and he shivered with anticipation. He surrendered without any fear, and was rewarded with soft kisses and words of praise.

...By the time the fifteenth savage lash had fallen on his naked back with no break, no praise, and no relief, he was beginning to wonder if they were testing his limits, waiting for him to use his safeword. Or… maybe it was their pleasure, tonight, to brutalize him. He still felt no real fear, just a faint confusion that infiltrated his submission hazily. It wasn’t until he turned to look at them, to gauge their mood, and was rewarded with a hard slap in the face followed by the application of a ball gag, muting him, that he felt the first thin tendrils of real unease.

The flogger was exchanged for a three-tailed whip. The lashes kept falling, one on another, and he felt his body being driven toward exhaustion. He could take a great deal of pain, but there was more to being beaten than just the simple pain of it; the sheer energy required to stay upright, even supported by the rope as he was, had begun to overwhelm him. His vision swam, black at the corners. Julian hated using his safewords as a rule, hated needing them, but now he made the physical gesture that they’d agreed up as a safeword when he was bound and gagged squeezing both his hands into tight fishes and then releasing them, fingers flung out, as if he was trying to count to ten.

Nothing happened. Nothing changed. Another stroke fell, with force behind it, on his shoulders which already burned, and he felt what he thought was a trickle of blood run down his back. Panic welled within him, and he made the sign again. Again, it wasn't acknowledged. His eyes swam with tears and the whipping only intensified, his lover moving to lash his chest and stomach, striking Julian in the face with an open palm whenever he dared to make eye contact, silently pleading for release. Their face was a terrible thing to see from his helpless position, a vicious blank on which only pleasure really registered. Too, their arousal as they witnessed his very real suffering was impossible to deny. A dark horror began to unfold in Julian’s mind.

Frantic, he began to struggle in earnest, using everything he knew about escaping from bondage to find a way out of his situation, but he was well and truly caught. It was no longer a game. Terrified, reduced to nothing but an object, something to hurt and used, he’d only been able to scream and sob. He wondered how long it would be until he blacked out. He wondered if that would make them stop.

Finally, panting with exertion, they’d dropped the whip. He sagged in his ropes, grateful beyond measure, that the pain was nearly over. He was a wreck, his heart and mind as flayed as his back by the betrayal, but even then he'd have crawled at their feet with gratitude, for the sheer mercy of being released. He submission still took up most of his consciousness, and he'd ached in every part of him to be touched gently and told he’d done well, his wounds cared for, his soul comforted.

But then he hadn’t been released. It wasn’t over. And hadn’t he known, in some secret part of himself, that it wouldn't end there with a mere beating?

They didn’t prepare him, although they did slick their own cock generously with oil. Later, bitterly, he supposed he should be grateful for that.

The really surreal things is that by this time they’d played so often and so hard, that he'd thought nothing they could do to him would take him completely by surprise. Of course, he'd also thought that he'd found them, the "one", the love of his life. But now the love of his life pushed his face up into the wall, jerked his hips toward them, and entered him in one cruel stroke, with no preparation and no warning. It _hurt_ and he was still trying to relax against the burning pain, knowing from experience that fighting only made it worse, when they began to fuck him hard, shoving in and out of him, showing no regard for his agony. Muted and bound, he'd the sign for STOP over and over, like an ass, but what else he could do?

The second time they took him, they’d taken the gag out of his mouth so they could hear him scream. After all, he has such a pretty voice. 

The third time, they'd taken his mouth instead, and if Julian hadn't been hurting so much in all parts of himself, he'd have admired their sheer endurance. 

When they were finished with him, they’d unbound him by the expedient of cutting the ropes from their hooks, not even bothering to untie him properly but leaving that for him too, and left him alone. Now he sobs on the floor, bleeding, waiting until he has the strength to untie his own wrists and ankles. Every part of him hurts, but none more than his shattered heart.

It will be a long time, maybe hours, before he can untie himself and hide in his bed, rolled up into a fetal position, ruining his best sheets. Longer still before he can begin the painful tending of wounds which have already begun to scab over, and wash the blood and cum from his torn skin. He won’t see anyone for a week or more, staying locked in his room, having food brought to him.

His lover will return, full of apologies and excuses, their mouth dripping with the sweetest of lies, but even Julian isn’t tthat stupid. He will tell them to get out, to never come back. That night he’ll cry himself to sleep, clutching a forgotten scarf that still smells like home, like someone he thought loved him.

He’ll recover - he’s more resilient than most would believe. He’ll drink a little more than he used to, there will be less light in his eyes, but he’ll recover. He’ll see clients again, and go out drinking nights when he’s not at work, and act as if nothing worse than an ordinary breakup has happened to him, that nothing is really wrong.

But he’ll never trust anyone who claims to love him, ever again. That had been his first mistake.


End file.
